How About Love?
by aspirer
Summary: Collins and Angel's relationship told in Seasons of Love style. Fluff and drama, a little angst perhaps. I have returned to my true love, the AngelCollins fandom. T just to be safe.


Disclaimer: Property of JL

In daylights… 

She spun around on one foot, her skirt flying out to catch the sun. Little rays bounced off the sequins stitched into her skirt. She staggered to a stop, brushing her wig out of her eyes and looking up at him, laughing. He smiled contentedly, leaning back on the bench watching his girl dance. Wordlessly, he opened his arms. She grabbed one of his hands, the colours of their skin blending as she twirled into him. She pulled her knees to her chin as she climbed into his lap. Wrapped around each other, unable to distinguish the temperature of their bodies or the sun's heat, they were content.

In sunsets… 

The roof of the loft was getting colder. He pulled his coat around the both of them, pulling her smaller body closer to his. She reached up to touch the side of his face as they watched the skyline, outlined with a pale pink hue, her favourite colour. The orange and yellow appeared, followed closely by lavender which faded slowly into blue, heralding the moon. He kissed her ear and whispered three words. She turned and buried her face into his shirt to hide her smile.

In midnights… 

He wakes slowly, his eyes blinking open. It's still dark, the blinds are drawn and he can feel her next to him. She's shaking. He rolls over slowly. 'Baby, what's-?' he stops at the sight of her. She's drenched in sweat, her arms squeezing her pillow, which her teeth are clamped over to prevent her crying out. He sits up immediately, gathering her into his arms, alarmed at the boiling temperature of her skin. His hands travel over her forehead. She moans and leans against him, craving the coolness of his touch.

In cups of coffee… 

One each morning to greet him as he wakes up. She's prepared it lovingly, the perfect amount of milk and sugar added each time. And it comes with a kiss. Then they disappear and are replaced by cheap, bitter blends from the hospital vending machine. It still comes with a kiss, but it's a peck of consolation from Mimi as she hands him the polystyrene cup with an apologetic glance. He drinks it. She's lying on a bed surrounded by foreign equipment, and it's all he can do not to rip it apart and carry her out of there.

In inches… 

He knew nothing about sewing. But even he noticed when her stitching changed. The hems on her skirts became wonky, the thread loose and the colours mismatched, but she would continue, inch by inch. She sat up all night in the hospital bed, straining her eyes to finish outfits she wasn't sure she'd ever get to wear. He would climb onto the bed behind her, supporting her from behind and rubbing her neck to ease the aches as they talked into the night about anything and everything, as she diligently stitched, one inch at a time.

In miles… 

Santa Fe was his dream. It was a pipe dream and they both knew it. But there's no time for realism. They'd calculate how many miles they'd hitchhike or how far they could get without paying for a train ticket. She picked colours for the restaurant and he made mental lists of the food they'd serve. She talked about her Abuela and the music she would have suggested. He'd talk about his Momma and the table settings she would have insisted upon. New Mexico was 1759 miles from them. But the dream they kept close.

In laughter… 

His laugh was deep and vibrated through his entire body. It was also contagious, starting a ripple effect that caught everyone. Her laugh was light and explosive, unexpected but always appreciated. She had cried, as most do when confronted with their own mortality. But she felt her own heart scream when she saw him break down. Their resolution was pure, uncomplicated acceptance. Unable to twist fate, they chose not to think of it. She woke every day determined to spend it laughing. She'd lean over him as he slept in the chair next to her bed, smoothing her fingers over the laugh lines decorating his eyes, the proof of his soul.

In strife… 

He never left the house without her drumsticks. Occasionally he'd stay over at Roger and Mark's unable to deal with the scent of her perfume that still lingered, undetectable until after her death. He saw her everywhere, in everything, the good things resembling her, the bad resembling the disease that took her. He often thought about moving and had gone so far as to call a real estate agent before he dropped the phone mid conversation, struck with a terrible, asphyxiating fear he'd forget her. So he stayed, lovingly preserving her memory – sending her outfits to charity, donating her savings (left to him) to Life Support and the hospital she'd hated, yet begrudgingly acknowledged. Every night, without fail, he would go to the roof and watch the sunset.

AN: Loved it? Hated it? You know what to do.


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